


Don't Fret for Me, Darling

by bellinibeignet



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Death, Eames has a bible and mentions only fearing God, M/M, Religious Content, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-06
Updated: 2012-10-06
Packaged: 2017-11-15 17:50:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/529995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellinibeignet/pseuds/bellinibeignet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames is dead, and he left a letter for his Arthur.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Fret for Me, Darling

**Author's Note:**

> A drabble I had on Tumblr that I decided to move over here.

 

 

Dom had always been more of a responsibility than a friend. It was Mal who’d been a friend – a best friend, even – and so Dom came as an accessory. And once Mal was dead and their children were in danger of being parentless, Arthur decided he had to help. He had to get Dom back to his kids. For them. Because Arthur knew what it was like to be without parents. He’d never forgive himself if Mal’s children wound up in foster care and he’d done nothing about it.

But today - years and years since Dom had found his way back to his children - with Dom standing in the middle of the apartment, eyes squinty in contemplation as they usually were, Arthur knew that this wasn’t about Mal, or James, or Phillipa, or even Dom himself. This was about Eames. Dom was just a messenger.

“Yusuf stopped by with everything,” Dom said, gesturing to the box in his arms. He sat it on the floor, and Arthur stared at it, stared at Eames’ name scrawled in permanent marker across the side, the word ‘KEEP’ underneath it. Which meant that there had been a second box. Arthur wondered what word had been on the other box. ‘TOSS’. ‘TRASH’.

Inside of the box – which was too full to close - a few of his own possessions caught his eye: a sweater, a few ties and books. Odd pieces he’d left over the years, just as many of Eames’ pieces were scattered around Arthur’s apartment now.

In fact, most of Eames’ things were here in Boston now, as they used Arthur’s place as a permanent fixture. Why they’d decided that, Arthur wasn’t sure now. There were a lot of things that just seemed to happen between them without explanation. Most of which resulted in everyone calling Arthur to send condolences. Eames had no more family. Not even a sibling. Just a partner in crime. A partner in love. A partner in general.

Which meant that Arthur had to take on the responsibility of everything that Eames left behind. He requested that everything in the London place be sent to charity, except for that red scarf Eames bought during a trip to Prague, and his books and photographs, his select jewelry, and a few other things that couldn't simply be given away. They'd meant too much to Eames. Meant too much to Arthur.

He couldn’t go retrieve anything himself, though. He couldn't bear that just yet. Maybe in a couple of months he would be able to take a plane and deal with it. Clean up all of the mess Eames thought he'd get back to organize himself. Sell off the electronics, give photos to friends. Sit in the bedroom and ignore the ghost of moments. Slowly make it through each item of clothing, to smell the collar, to remember the times he'd wondered how such grotesque patterns had looked so lovely on that wonderful man.

But the old apartment in London needed to be emptied so the landlord could rent it to someone else. Someone who wasn't Eames. Business had to be done, as always, and thank God for Yusuf, who’d volunteered without hesitation.

“Everything you wanted to keep is there,” Dom nodded, slipping his hands into his coat pockets.

Again, Arthur said nothing. Just stared into the box. The only thing he had to show for their relationship was now in a cardboard box in the form of material things. Eames would laugh at that, but Arthur wasn’t quite in the mood.

“Uh, Yusuf found this in his bible,” Dom said carefully, and he pulled the burgundy covered bible from the box, waving it a bit before opening it and pulling out a yellowed and crinkled and folded envelope.

Arthur’s eyes zeroed in.

“I know the bible wasn’t on your list of things to keep, but…”

Arthur put out his hand to take it, and yes, he’d forgotten about Eames’ bible. He remembered the crucifix he wore – that was surely in the box somewhere – but the bible had slipped his mind. Eames had been the one with concrete faith, while Arthur felt more aimless.

Their own little irony.

“Is there anything you need, Arthur?” Dom asked, but Arthur’s eyes were on the cover of the bible, and he was remembering the few long conversations he’d had with Eames about belief and war and love. All of those sacred nights.

“Look, Arthur. I know-“

Arthur stopped him. “Not today, Dom. Thank you, but no. Not today.”

Dom didn’t make a bigger production of it, and left Arthur in his studio to be alone.

Arthur swallowed when he heard the door click shut, and he was alone. All alone in his living space, cold but too numb to adjust the heat or start a fire. Too weak to think of doing anything but sit there on Eames’ end of the loveseat.

Arthur opened the envelope, slowly, savoring. And he found a worn yellow page from a legal pad. Covered inch to inch in Eames’ flowing cursive hand – the neatest thing about him.

_Arthur –_

_If you’ve found this and I’m sitting next to you, or I’m out at the grocery, or I’m in another city on a job, do not read this. If you’ve found this and I am alive and well, put it back in my bible. Leave it be._

_However, if you have my bible, I assume that it is for sentimental reason, as you’ve never touched it before as far as I know. If you have my bible, I assume that you’re clinging to the idea of me because I have gone away from this life. If that is true, I must have the final say. I cannot let you go on without a final word, and I hope that these words will comfort you._

_I have never feared death. Not more than any other thing. And certainly not more than God. I’ve told you this, but I am only reiterating in case you didn’t believe me. Rest easy knowing that I accept death as another path, a thing I have to do. We all must._

_I have feared losing you, though. This is truest of all. And so, I cannot honestly comfort that ache in your heart if I am indeed dead. I have often enough wondered how to deal with the idea that I could outlive you, that I could wake up and not touch you or hear you or smell you. It pains me now just thinking about it. You’re lying next to me, clutching your pillow, and I can feel your breath on my shoulder, and that’s a wonderful feeling. I can’t imagine myself without it._

_And so, the only thing that I can possibly tell you that might get you through this future without me is that I love you so desperately and truly, and that you are as important to me as my faith and God. Thou shalt not worship false idols, but you my dear are neither false nor sin. It is your love and my ability to love you back that gives me strength in my weakness, gives me tranquility in my stress, and I thank you for sharing yourself with me as much as you have._

_I only hope that you’ll take the moments we’ve had and let them heal you. Let the memories cradle you, and clutch your pillow at night knowing that I’ve always loved you. From the very beginning. Until the very end._

_And then, I’d like you to allow yourself to love again. Live like you’ve never lived before. I’d love to see you do that, if I am indeed in heaven and able to look down on you. I don’t want you to create a shell and prevent yourself from the glorious future you are capable of living without me._

_Do not fret for me, darling. Live and share your heart, because you carry blessings that will change the lives of others. You certainly changed mine._

_The man who loved you most of all,_

_M. Eames_

Arthur finally allowed himself to cry. He hadn’t done it since he heard the news. Hadn’t done it at the funeral. Hadn’t done it in the two days since. But any strength he'd mastered was shattered and gone now, hearing Eames’ words coming off the page, imagining him writing it in the middle of the night.

If only he knew that it wasn’t his imagination. He  _did_ remember the night that Eames had written his letter. Arthur had opened his eyes and was going to ask Eames to turn the lights off and go to sleep, but he’d been writing, and Arthur thought it best not to interrupt him.  _It was probably for work,_  he’d thought.  _It’s probably important._

Now, he curled up on Eames’ end of the loveseat, clutching the bible and letter to his chest, and yes, he could smell Eames’ scent still embedded into the cushion, and yes, Eames was dead.


End file.
